Sunday, February 13, 2011
DAy 577: birth
I am born in the silence between two generations. The elder- told that nothing good could come from this history- this language- this skin tone. The latter who insisted on uprising. So my revolution begins when my fathers chooses to recognize the prophecy of a name- mine speaks of music. I am born like a poem. Perfect and ready for the world- quick and painful, but worth it. I am everything my mother prayed for- 10 toes and fingers. For the first 5 years my weight is measured in smiles and dimples, in curls and giggles. I am a miracle. They called me daughter, but I am still struggling with the weight of that word. When I open my eyes, I only see mirrors in the skin of my brothers and father. I cry. I spend the rest of my life wishing that I wanted to be more like my mother.